


Let's Start At The Beginning

by malcontent (Whispering_Sumire)



Series: AMNESTY, BC FUQ IT❀ [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Amnesty, Angst, BAMF Derek Hale, BAMF Stiles, Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Bad Parent Sheriff Stilinski, Blanket Permission, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Stiles Stilinski, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Domestic, Feels, Fluff (Kinda Sorta), Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Handwaving, Happy Ending, Heartfelt Conversations, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Justice, Love, M/M, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Nogitsune Trauma, Non-Binary Stiles Stilinski, Pack, Panic Attacks, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Derek, Sparring, Stiles Stilinski Has Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, also everyone has permission to remix translate or finish, as is his relationship with stiles, bc i'm done with it, but it's not the focus, i'll be honest with you, meaning this has been in my computer for a long ass time and is probably shit, scott is incredibly ooc, they/them pronouns, this has a pretty solid ending for an amnesty fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 17:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16496744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/malcontent
Summary: "Der?"Derek's lips twitch up, like they always do whenever Stiles calls him that. (He started a couple months ago, a few weeks after Allison; he'd been feeling off and floaty and odd and disgusting, had taken four very long showers and was sat with stinging, flushed, over-sensitive skin, all raw, shivering ache. He'd tried to get up to take another, but Derek had held him back, made him stay in his seat and pick a movie for them."Let it rest, Stiles," he'd said softly, voice a little rough."But,Der,"he'd protested, though he was already relaxing back into the man's hold. Then he'd looked up at his face, and Derek had been looking at him with something he'd never seen before in those eyes, a kind of melancholy-hopeful smile gracing his face, and Stiles had barely been able tobreathepast the sudden lump in his throat.It had felt natural, at the time, to call him that. He still doesn't really knowwhy. But, then, Derek had kissed his temple, run a gentling hand down his arm, indicated the tv again speechlessly, and Stiles had resolved to call him by that nickname as often as possible.)"Yeah, Stiles?""How do you feel about time-travel?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heed. The. Tags. All the trigger warnings are in there, essentially, but this first chapter is pretty dark, suicidal thoughts, scratching as a form of self-harm, Kate was a thing, allusions to abuse, vivid nightmares, panic attacks, gore, so, just, tread lightly.
> 
> (Scott and the sheriff are laughably ooc, just roll with it)
> 
> Also: Amnesty; this is likely a forever WIP, if you wanna run away with it, feel free (please tag me, thoooo, I wanna gush at youuuu). If you read it anyway, goddamn, but you're a bamf mofo. I love all of you, xoxoxo

_Fuck_.

Really, that's all he can think, standing in front of her grave after it's over. There are many other things, too, but they're all muffle-quiet in the back of his head, drowning under that one word, that one sentiment.

He feels numb.

Disaster-stricken.

That, of all things, is probably why he does it—because he's not thinking, not really, part of him terrified that if he ever actively _thinks_ again, it won't be _his_ thoughts, his mind. It wasn't his mind before, it doesn't feel like his mind now, all the neurons got re-coded and copied and became the Nogitsune, or is it the other way around? The Nogitsune became him?

It's a riddle, really, which is fitting, in its own way.

So is the fact that he has all this information in his head, power buzzing under his skin, and none of it belongs to _him_. Sure, he's in control of it, now, hopefully, but it isn't his. And it's what killed his friend.

He wants to dig it out with a rusted knife, eviscerate himself just to see the blood and gore of his intestines in his hands, make sure they're sanguine and viscera and _human_ still, because without _proof_ , he just can't force himself to believe it.

What he _can_ do, is research, _plan_.

It's what he's good at.

It's what the Nogitsune was good at, too, but he tries not to let himself think too hard about that.

* * *

The Pack is an odd thing nowadays.

Derek is still around, a Beta, but not really _Scott's_ Beta, like there's too much history there for them to fit together that way, and, Stiles suspects, it would be more than a little awkward. Cora stayed gone after that little road-trip she and Derek had after the Alphas, she's in South America somewhere, they Skype. Chris and Isaac ran away from Beacon Hills, fucked right off to _France_ , not that Stiles blames them. Peter helped Malia escape Eichen and told her some things about their biological relationship- her adoptive father having basically abandoned her- the two of them are off bonding or some shit, trying to find her bio-mom (Stiles can't find it in himself to care all too much, he was half crazy and she was half feral and what happened at Eichen between them _shouldn't_ have, but _did_ , and his first time will forever be sullied for it. He loves her, in a way, but he regrets it, and, he thinks, she does, too, a little).

Things between Kira and Scott are a little rocky ever since the whole... well, _everything_. But Kira _is_ Scott's Beta, possibly his _only_ Beta. Yeah, maybe Stiles would've counted himself amongst those ranks awhile ago, but his best friend flinches and recoils at the mere sight of him now, and even though he tries to say he doesn't blame him, that it's okay, it's just _not_ , and they both know it.

Stiles doesn't know _what_ the fuck Deaton is, he never has, though.

Lydia skipped ahead a few grades, shattering all preconceived notions of ditziness, and landed herself a scholarship for a college in London, where she's already had a very happy reunion with Jackson. He knows- he Skypes regularly with the London Pack- that the well-established Pack there, one he had personally made sure Jackson was capable of joining before he even moved, is already accepting the Banshee with open arms. Their Alpha, a French man named Antony, has asked Stiles to join _his_ Pack several times, always pouting flamboyantly when Stiles denies him.

And Stiles' dad never considered himself _Pack_ in the first place, and, honestly, with the way he looks at Stiles, now, exhausted and exasperated and the slightest bit bitter, half disgusted. There are some days when he can't even be bothered to remember that the person who caused the explosions and other dastardly evils wasn't actually _Stiles_ , and—well, Stiles is starting to wonder if he even considers himself _family_ , still.

He knows his father loves him.

But some days he wonders if he hates him just as much.

The empty whiskey bottles piling up seem to agree.

Which is how he finds himself with Derek. _Often_. Derek's just as lonely, just as damaged, probably, so it works, mostly. He's asked the other man to teach him how to fight, because he doesn't want to be useless anymore, and, hopefully, the illusion of strength, though it may be physical, not mental, will help him in some way. Derek's also dug into whatever archives his family and Peter had accrued to help in researching the Spark Deaton told him he had.

Practicing magic is fun, it helps lighten the inertia, the numbness that cascades over him and overwhelms, eclipses everything else.

It's also the key to this all, the idea, theory, wouldn't work without it.

"Come on," he urges Derek with a sharp smile, sweating but unwilling to take off his shirt. There are scars there his friend doesn't know about, electrical burns from Brunski, whiplashes and deep cuts from Gerard, too many other things that _didn't_ scar, but he'd have to explain if Derek saw. He knows the 'were wonders at his enforced modesty, but he doesn't push, would _never_ , because of—— _Kate_. "You gettin' tired?"

Derek rolls his shoulders, bares his teeth, and runs at him.

Stiles dodges the punch, the kick, and Derek twirls away from his beruned brass-knuckles, only to have Stiles jump him, land a knee in his face and a steel-toed boot in his side before he's flipping over his head, behind him, knuckles to ribs, crunch. Then Derek's got his arm, is trying to pin him, but Stiles wriggles just the right way, twists, bites, then they're circling each other again, and on and on until they're both too exhausted to move.

It was noon when they started, and by the time they both fall in a heap next to each other, it's _dark_ , no moon in the sky, but, between the branches and the leaves of the Preserve, _stars_ , clear and dazzling and beautiful.

Stiles remembers late nights, when he was very, very young, star-gazing with his mother. He'd learned about every constellation he could while she was in the hospital with her help, until she'd forgotten his name, his face, what stars even _were_. And when she came at him with the broken shards of a vase, screaming at the top of her lungs that he was a monster, that he was _killing_ her, that he was Death incarnate and she wasn't going to let him take her away from her family—he tried to forget, too.

He'd never been very good at forgetting.

All the unspeakable things the Nogitsune left are a testament to that.

"So, who would've gotten us?" He asks breathlessly, because he always does. It's a game he likes to play, it's morbid, but it'll make him want to push harder tomorrow.

"The Alphas," Derek replies gruffly.

"Scott, working with Gerard," Stiles says cheerfully, more upset than Derek about _that_ old hurt. You can decide to not be Pack without forcing someone to do something with their body they don't _want_ to do. And it's _worse_ , because of Kate, and then, later, Jennifer.

Sometimes Stiles is left breathless in the face of all that Derek has endured, heartbroken and, maybe, a little jealous. Because he's still _going_.

Most days Stiles just wants to _stop_.

Derek huffs, and Stiles turns his head to the side to smile at the man.

"A Cerburus," Derek guesses, and Stiles groans.

"Do _not_ remind me, fighting that thing _sucked!"_ Derek had saved him from being the three-headed demon hound's chew-toy, only to become one himself until Stiles had found the right exorcism. "Okay, ummm, a horde of Pixies." Twice, now, they've had to deal with _those_ , they're fast, and they _sting_ , and they're fucking _hard_ to kill. That the only way to do it is burning them, and that Derek always fought valiantly but decidedly let Stiles have the last incinerating blow is not lost on him.

Neither is the fact that- since he's over at the loft an exuberant amount anyway, and the man doesn't _cook_ for himself, let alone buy any decent food, so Stiles has taken up the job, because a werewolf needs to _eat_ , dammit- if you're ever going to cook a meal for Derek Hale, you've got to avoid meat. The smell. It bothers him. Stiles thinks if he reads too much into that he'll be sick, and he had his dad on a mostly vegan diet, anyway, so at least he doesn't really have to change up his style or his habits.

Well, he does have to cook a hell of a lot _more_ than usual, but that's to be expected, because, you know, _werewolf_.

"I can't think of anything else," Derek sighs after a long moment, "but there's probably something."

"There's _always_ something..." A pause, a sigh. "Hey, Der?"

Stiles shifts so he's laying on his side, all of his attention on the man beside him, Derek's lips twitch up, like they always do whenever Stiles calls him that. (He started a couple months ago, a few weeks after Allison; he'd been feeling off and floaty and odd and disgusting, had taken four very long showers and was sitting with stinging, flushed, over-sensitive skin, all raw, shivering ache. He'd tried to get up to take another, but Derek had held him back, made him stay in his seat and pick a movie for them.

"Let the water rest, Stiles," he'd said softly, voice just a little rougher than usual.

"But, _Der,"_ he'd grumbled in protest, though he was already relaxing back into the man's hold, resigned. Then he'd looked up at his face, and Derek had been looking at him with something he'd never seen before in those impossible eyes, a kind of melancholy-hopeful smile gracing his face, sparkling in rain-cluttered atmosphere, and Stiles had barely been able to _breathe_ past the sudden lump in his throat.

It had felt natural, at the time, to call him that. He still doesn't really know _why_. But, then, Derek had kissed his temple, sweet and chaste, run a gentling hand down his arm, indicated the tv again speechlessly, and Stiles had resolved to call him by that nickname as often as possible.)

"Yeah, Stiles?"

He takes a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out with a forceful exhale.

"How do you feel about time-travel?"

Derek blinks, his brow furrowing, before he turns his head slightly to look at Stiles fully, a little incredulous, a little awed, and slightly despairing.

"... Are you—are you serious?"

Stiles swallows, "I mean, I'd have to practice more with my Spark, and we'd have to do a shit-tonne of research, and, maybe it wouldn't work? Worst case scenario, it'll kill us, but we've both lost—and I just—if I did this— I know it's a risk, and it may take us a while to get to the point where we _can_. If you don't want to, that's okay, but I have to—I have to _try_. And I don't know, we're _Pack_ , so I couldn't _not_ say—"

Then there are lips, slightly chapped, sweat-salty, right against his, calloused hands cupping his face, and for a moment, the shadows disappear, something like joy, like exhilaration, swallows it up, leaves him euphoric in the after-glow, even as Derek pulls back with a gasp, looking shocked that he'd done that, his expression so open, vulnerable, kind of shit-scared.

"You kissed me," Stiles murmurs, stunned, stating the obvious, and Derek, in spite of himself, chuckles softly. A grin crawls over Stiles' face as he wraps his arms around the other man's neck, pulls him back in, "You _kissed_ me."

And then Stiles is kissing _him_ , although it's hard to accomplish when he's smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. Derek quickly fixes that, licking across his teeth, tangling their tongues together, eliciting a gasp and a moan.

It feels _good_ , sweet and tender and passionate, it steals away the numbness and makes him feel lit up, tingly. Derek moves until he's on top of him, covering him, shielding him from the _world_ , their hips slotting together as their mouths, tongues, kiss, chase, taste, _feel_.

"Derek," Stiles breathes against his lips, "this is more than just kissing, right?"

Derek stills a little, pulls back, looks down at him with flushed cheeks, mouth open and panting, pupils blown, eyes questioning.

"This _means_ something, doesn't it? Because if it doesn't, I don't—I can't—" Stiles' heartbeat ratchets up with panic, his eyes suddenly burning with tears, because he doesn't even really know how to put this into words, a _need_ that builds up in his heart until it's breaking him.

"It does," Derek says, hushing him, kissing his cheeks, his eyes, his lips again, "it means _everything."_

"Okay," Stiles breathes, kissing him again. "Okay."

If, when they're walking back to the car with spit-slick, kiss-bruised lips, Derek catches Stiles counting his fingers to make _sure_ this isn't a dream, he doesn't comment.

* * *

Needless to say, they start poring through everything they have, bargaining with other Packs and supernatural creatures for a few things they don't (the most memorable species of which was a 1/4th Naga nun, who gave them a few of her scales for good measure so long as they promised to visit her church again soon).

Derek watches Stiles, sitting at the table, surrounded by a plethora of books, and feels some strange amount of pride for him, that he thought of this, that he's working toward it so valiantly and ardently, that he's not letting what happened to him break him. Although, it's a testament to who he is, how he thinks, and his type of strength that he's not actually going to let what happened _happen_ at all.

Derek doesn't know _when_ exactly this started between them, manhandling and threats became scenting and friendly bickering, wary suspicion became tentative alliance became friendship became _Pack_ became _this_.

Not that he's entirely sure what this is, he knows it's _something_ , in fact, he's pretty sure he's _in love_ with Stiles, may have been for a while. He noticed it, or the beginnings of it, the night with Gerard and the Kanima, when Stiles showed up smelling of pain and blood and sweat and tears, and, after everything had settled and Isaac and Scott had given him the story on everything that had happened, Stiles had yelled at Scott for being an abusive asshole and hadn't talked to him for a week after.

The forgiveness he'd granted the other boy during the summer had been fragile at best, but they'd seemingly gotten over it, although Stiles makes a point every now and again that he still holds that grudge, which is honestly kind of odd for Derek, since, mostly, he just felt relieved (after the fact) that it had been dealt with. It still hurt, still _hurts_ , and Stiles kind of, absently, and without even realizing, validates that feeling, that emotional turmoil.

Derek goes to him, rests hands on his shoulders, chin atop his head; his boy smells like fallen leaves, blackberries, and parchment, teased sour-salt at the edges with sleep-deprived desperation and a quiet, lingering sort of heartache.

"You should sleep," he murmurs, because it's been almost three days, and Stiles has barely eaten anything in that time, let alone allowed himself to sleep in any capacity. He's frayed, ragged, more broken and hushed than Derek likes, than he can handle, but it's something he understands.

Patchwork souls, is what they are.

"Another chapter," Stiles mumbles, and Derek wonders what language the tome he's reading is even _in_ , although it would be more accurate to say the _two_ tomes, scroll, book, and Wikipedia page, only one of which is in English.

"Will you eat, at least?" Derek presses quietly.

"Not hungry," Stiles says, just as soft, and Derek sighs.

"You know what my greatest fear is? what it will _always_ be, because of the things that have happened to me?"

Honesty, communication, they're not his favorite things, they _aren't_ , but they come a little easier with- _for_ \- Stiles.

"... Kate?" Stiles whispers, as if saying her name will bring her back from the dead, straight into the loft, with a gun aimed at both of their heads in the time it takes to blink.

"Losing my Pack," Derek corrects, because as much as Kate, memories of her, destroy him, terrify him, horrify him, that's not what this is about, and even facing her wouldn't be as dreadful as— "losing _you_ , Stiles; please eat, for me? Please?"

The boy escapes his chair like it's a burning thing and charges into him, arms wound tightly around his back, hands fisted into his shirt, head in the nook of his neck, trembling. Derek rests his hands on Stiles' hips, runs his nose alongside his jaw, tang and brine and dust, offering his own scent to mingle, soothe.

"Okay," Stiles says, "and—and I'll try to sleep, too. Sorry, it's just—"

"It's hard. I know; I know, but I _need_ you. I need you to be alright."

"Yeah. Sorry."

Stiles' arms slide up, his lips drag against the skin of Derek's throat, and he hums, tongue lancing out to catch the taste. Derek shivers at the sensation, wraps a hand around the back of Stiles' neck, moves his head until their mouths caress, chaste, meaningful, before he's pulling away.

"Pizza?"

Stiles laughs, and it might be the first time he's heard that sound in awhile, but it doesn't sound the same as it used to, heavier, less honestly joyful—Derek worries it'll never sound the same again.

"Yeah."

* * *

〘 **Flame-on** 〙 he wills at his brass-knuckles (sure, it's a cliched sort of thing, but the runes he etched onto the weapons respond readily enough to the command—don't judge, okay?), before diving into the fray to battle yet _another_ horde of fucking Pixies. He's getting _beyond_ tired of them, he really is.

Derek weaves in front of him, roars at a few, who only cower away from the sound for a second, but that's long enough to get them fried by Stiles' hand. A pocket of them get clawed and bitten bloody, try to make a hasty retreat, but his supply of mountain ash makes a circle around them all, and he's _faster_. There's an injured hiss, and suddenly all of them fly up, high, out of reach.

 **"Where's your Alpha?"** They ask, pitched to a childish squeal, echoed by thousands, a cacophony of little-kid voices that's so off it fucking sickens him, and for a moment that's all he feels before what they're asking really sinks in.

The fucked up thing is that the answer to that question is, _he doesn't know_. Then again, he does, doesn't he? Because red eyes don't make the Alpha, not to him, not when the only other person who's been keeping this town safe from things like this is right by his side and his best friend, who still flinches away from his touch, is probably still too busy mourning or playing video games to notice.

And Stiles gets it, he does, shit's fucked up, Scott's head isn't on straight, but you'd think the death of his first love would make him more _proactive_ about these things, instead of just letting it go, assuming it'll take care of itself, or that it isn't supernatural at all so he doesn't have to force himself to deal with it.

So dead-set as he is to be _human_ , even in the face of what they've been through.

Especially in the face of what they've been through.

So Stiles, even though he's just the slightest bit bitter, understands. He also knows, in this moment, with more certainty than he's had about anything since the Nogitsune, that Scott isn't his fucking Alpha.

"Derek," he says, and the man in question shoots him a very odd look, "is right fucking here. And my _Alpha_ and I aren't going _anywhere_ until the lot of you are dead, unless..."

The Pixies buzz, titter, spread out and come together again, a massive swarm taking a collective breath, none of them as smug or playful as they were not ten seconds ago.

**"Unless, what?"**

"Unless you go back to your plane," Stiles shrugs, nonchalant, "it's the only way you're getting out of my circle alive."

They convene, titter some more, bemoan their fate, and, eventually, leave. Stiles is pretty proud of himself, that was easier than it could've been, then again, this swarm was smaller than the ones they've dealt with before.

Stiles cuts his hand through the air at the same time he wills his knuckles to power-down, the mountain-ash circle broken, and his weapons in a neutral state, he goes over to Derek, who's wearing a half perplexed, half shocked look on his face.

"Are you hurt?" Derek's brows turn down as he reaches over and takes Stiles' hand, leeching pain instantly, "You should be more careful; I'll heal, you won't."

The 'were unceremoniously guides him off to some rock suitable enough for sitting and inspects his various bruises and cuts with a frown. "There isn't much you can do," Stiles sighs, batting his hands away and standing up with a groan, lack of adrenaline and the endorphins from werewolf pain mojo making him a little dizzy, off-kilter, "until we get home. It's not like we brought a first-aid kit with us."

"It's not like we expected to get attacked," Derek quips back, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to keep him steady, and Stiles offers him a grateful smile.

"And yet, we always do," he laments.

It isn't until they're in the car and halfway to the loft that Derek says, soft and a little unsure, "I'm... not an Alpha anymore, Stiles."

"Fuck that," Stiles says. "You're my Alpha. I don't need you to have red eyes or be power hungry or unequivocably _righteously_ moral, I don't need you to be my friend or even my _boyfriend_ to say that. Pack means you have each other's backs, that you're family, and an Alpha is the one at the head of that, holding it together and keeping everyone safe and providing for everyone and making sure they do shit like _eat_ , stay alive.

"You're my Alpha and I'm your Beta and we're _Pack."_

He says it so vehemently and earnestly that for a second Derek actually seems shocked speechless, mouth parted, heavenly eyes wide with surprise. Then his cheeks go _red_ , and Stiles hasn't ever seen Derek _blush_ before.

It's fucking adorable.

A soft smile graces the man's lips as he nods, and it feels so much like acceptance, like an unspoken _promise_ , that Stiles feels fucking _giddy_ with it.

* * *

Stiles is half hyperventilating when he shows up at the loft with a duffel bag and tear-stained cheeks. His face _crumples_ the moment Derek's eyes light on him.

"Hey," Derek tries, already ushering him inside and sliding the duffel bag off of his shoulder, "hey, hey, shhh, what's wrong? What happened?"

Stiles smells like sweat and panic and tears and stress, coated in blackberries and vanillin, acrid-tang, sick-sweet. His shoulders shake with heaving breaths as he suppresses the sobs that want to wrack through him, and he's shaking his head with choked off little whines as he takes in his hands and obsessively ticks off each finger one by one by one, over and over and over again.

"Baby," Derek says before he can stop himself, but when the appellation makes Stiles hesitate before counting off the next finger, he can't bring himself to regret it, feel insecure about it, _"baby,"_ he breathes, and he wants all the answers, he does, but now isn't the time for questions, Stiles obviously can't handle them, and the boy is trembling like a fucking _leaf_.

So he takes Stiles' slim-nimble hands in his, counts with him, drags him over to the couch so he can sit down, rest, makes him _breathe_ with the finger counting: in for seven fingers, hold for eight, out for eleven—and it helps, slows down his erratic breathing, rapid heartbeat, steadily, the boy relaxes.

When Stiles is finally settled, mostly, his eyes drag up from their hands, gooey caramel irises, bottom lip trembling, eyelashes beaded with tears, and he just folds into him, crawls into Derek's lap and wraps himself around the man like he's afraid, terrified, to ever let go.

Derek swallows past the lump in his throat and rubs circles onto Stiles' back.

"He was drinking," Stiles says, so quiet and muffled by Derek's shoulder that even with supernatural hearing and proximity he has to strain to hear, "lotsa whiskey. I think he was on the third bottle when I came home. And, and, he doesn't blame me, for what happened, just like he doesn't blame me for what happened to mom, but he can't look at my face, right now, like he couldn't then—and it _hurts_ , Der.

"Fuck, it's killing me. And I c—can still _feel_ it, did you know that? The Nogitsune, under my skin. I want it out, I just want it _out_ , ugh, I—" he starts hiccoughing, and Derek's heart stops when he smells blood, he pulls Stiles back enough to see his fingernails biting into the skin of his arms and has to fight not to be sick.

"Stop, stop—Stiles, _stop_ ," he says in horror as he tears Stiles' hands away, keeps them from doing anymore damage. Stiles starts sobbing again, incoherent and mumbling and for a moment Derek seriously wants to run all the way to the Stilinski house and deck John for being a shit fucking father. He also wants to cry, or be sick, or both, because he _knew_ , he did, that Stiles wasn't okay.

He remembers lying in Laura's arms after the fire and thinking so intensely about how all of it was his fault, and how _easy_ it would be to take his claws and just—but he couldn't, for all that he hated himself, for all that he wanted the ghosts of his parents to spit hate at him and drag him down to hell where he _belonged_ , Laura needed him. That Bond kept him going, until she was gone, too, and then it was just rage and guilt and a swamp of pit-fall emotions that never let him have any _peace_.

And he knows that Stiles has that look on his face, when he's had to stop reading for the twentieth time in as many minutes to check his hands, count his fingers, like maybe he wants an _end_ , in the way that things bloody and battered and burning to _ash_ end.

Normally it just pushes him to research harder, more fierce about reaching his goal, more terrified of what it'll mean if he _doesn't_. Now, though, now he isn't setting it aside, he _can't_ , run too ragged, too _exhausted_.

"Stiles," Derek murmurs, shushes him, kisses him, holds him close and breathes with him until his sobbing subsides again, and by then the boy is already asleep in his arms. With a shuddering exhale Derek picks him up and carries him to the bed, he, himself, too raw from what just happened to allow any sort of distance.

He lays them down and pulls the soft blue comforter up with a sigh, cradling the boy close and protective.

* * *

Kyoko wants to scream as she watches her hands, _her **hands**_ , vicious and terrible, scratch at a _child's_ body, but she can't, she _can't_. The sound meant to be full of agony and grief warps in her throat, comes out bubbly, delighted _laughter_.

She can't walk away from this, can't hide, but her soul can let itself go _under_. Beneath white-static in the last place she was truly _herself_ , where there is a monster and a game of go she never wins.

But, sometimes, she can't _help_ it, the flashes of clarity she gets, the pockets of _present_ she is allowed—but not freedom, never freedom.

Once, she thinks she falls in love with someone, as much as you _can_ fall in love with someone under circumstances like these. Her body is concubine to a powerful man, has borne three children, and she and they have conspired horrible, murderous plots. She's seen battlefields with eyes no longer hers, watched a little boy cradle his mother's head, ink-loam hair slicked to her face with blood and clumps of carnage and gore, while her body was yards away.

His heartbroken, blood-curdling cry haunts her, she will never forget it, even as she suffers, playing this eternal game, neverending, and it's that, it's that sight imprinted on her mind that makes her fight hardest, along with the lingering longing for that kind woman with pale-green eyes and sugar-glazed lips who shines the cobbled path to the gardens.

Kyoko doesn't know how long the demon has had her, she's sure she has been the cause for at least two civilizations' falls, now. She knows she is _old_ , though her body stopped _aging_ when the fox took it. And this girl, she is young, she is innocence, she recites poetry to the lilies and dimples at Kyoko whenever she sees the light in her eyes that means she's _there_.

Finally, _finally_ , Kyoko manages to win a game, she doesn't know how much time it will grant her, but her body is _hers_ again, and she's too gleeful to consider anything else, too frantic and urgent and needy to stop herself from going to her love.

It is selfish, she knows, so, so selfish, but she can't stop herself, and she is relieved, _joyful_ , she weeps, heart soaring, when the girl takes the kiss pressed to her lips with grace and kisses _back_.

She tastes of stardust and honeycomb, and then, all too soon, like copper, when Kyoko's husband finds them, and guts her with his sword.

She holds the innocent girl in her arms and wipes tears from meadow eyes with the sleeve of her kimono, looking up at a man she doesn't even _know_ , has never _seen_ before now, but who knows her body more intimately than even she does, since it is not her own anymore.

He looks enraged, mad, hurt, and his eyes are pale-green, too.

The realization hits her, takes her breath away, destroys whatever was left of her sanity, and the Nogitsune laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

 _"Did you really think,"_ it whispers, hot, scratching, needles in the back of her mind, _"you could ever beat me unless I **let** you?"_

And she screams, she screams as it cackles and her husband lifts his sword, and she knows she'll only be dying now because the Nogitsune is _bored_ with her. Suddenly, desperately, she hates herself, she hates the girl she loved, she hates her husband who must've _fucked_ her every night, she hates the blood on her hands and the memory of the boy with his mother's _head_ in his arms.

She wants to _burn_ everything.

The Nogitcune smiles sharply as it reclaims her body, jumping away from the blow that surely would've been her end.

 _"Why didn't you just **say** so?"_ it asks.

And she stops screaming.

Starts _laughing_ with it.

Everything, _everything_ burns——

 _"Stiles,"_ Derek's got him, back anchored against his chest, his arms around Stiles' middle, legs bracketing his hips, chin resting on his shoulder. "Shhh, baby, it was just a dream—just a dream."

But Kyoko- _Stiles_ \- he—she— _they_ can't be sure, so they shakily bring their hands to their eyes, manically scrub their eyes of the tears blurring their vision, and count, "One... Two... Three, four, fivesixseveneightninet—ten... Ten, I have ten."

"That's right; that's it Stiles, ten. You're awake, it was just a dream—a nightmare."

"I—I can't—I. C—count them with me?"

"Okay, baby," Derek says, and Stiles nearly winces at how _tired_ he sounds, _hates_ that he's doing this to him, wishes he were different, better, he _wants_ to be better. He'll never give in, as long as he has Derek, as long as he keeps counting, the Nogitsune won't become—he won't become— _they_ will not be _tricked_ again.

"Okay."

* * *

"I'm sorry," Stiles finally says, when he's calmed down and they're curled into each other again.

"Why?"

"I don't know—for showing up like this? Freaking out like that? Never letting you get enough sleep? Everything? I'm just. I'm sorry."

Derek wraps his arms tightly around him, pulls him impossibly closer, "Don't be, Stiles. Don't ever be sorry for _needing_ me. I'm—I'm _yours_ , I _want_ to be here for you, I'll _always_ be here."

Stiles sniffles, clutches at Derek's bare back and presses a wet little smile into his shoulder.

"Thanks, Der... speaking of wanting to be here for me... mind if I stay awhile? I mean, I could get a job, find an apartment, I wouldn't—"

"Oh, baby," Derek sighs, and presses a kiss into his hair, "the loft's been your home for months, already. And I feel better with Pack close by, anyway—you don't need to go looking for apartments. Besides, what would be the point, considering what we're planning on doing?"

Stiles looks up at him through long lashes, wide caramel eyes lit up and marveling, "How do you always do that?"

"What?"

"Just when I think I can't love you anymore, be anymore _proud_ of you, you go and say things like that," Stiles breathes, like he can't even stop himself.

The warmth that bubbles up within Derek's chest, and the cartwheels his stomach's turning at the confession are inevitable, since it's the first time Stiles has stated his emotions so _plainly_ , and Derek would be at a loss for words, he thinks, speechless in wonderment, were it not for the fact that he's had these words on the tip of his tongue since their very first kiss.

"I love you, too."

The whole fucking _world_ , Derek thinks, stops for that goddamn smile.

* * *

"I want to go shopping," Stiles says over breakfast one morning, a little over a week after he's moved in.

Derek, already acutely aware of how much stuff he _doesn't_ have (pots, potholders, tissues, paper towels, bleach, _food_ , the list goes on), just nods, because he's had a feeling Stiles has been building up to this, practically speaking.

"Not just for bleach and groceries and stuff," Stiles says, waving his fork around, and Derek makes an inquisitive noise in the back of his throat. Stiles sighs, looks down at his bacon and eggs with a half shy, half contemplative expression.

"When I was little," he begins, slowly, like he's not entirely sure how Derek will react, like he's just the slightest bit worried, "my mom and I used to play dress up. There was even this, I have no idea what the brand was, or what it was called, but she got these big pink boxes, just, full of makeup. And she'd have me sit on the bed with her, both of us wearing dresses and heels, and she'd open the box and she'd go through everything inside with me.

"And she used to sing, you know, off-tune and terrible, as she put it on me, and then I'd go parading around like that, and I _loved_ it, it made me feel——but dad? He never understood, not really, and, once or twice, after she died, I tried to put on her clothes and her makeup just to—I don't know. It's complicated, but it was—I wanted to feel _close_ with her, again, I wanted that comfort, and that freedom.

"But when dad saw he got so _angry_ , and he had me put it all back and he yelled at me never to touch her things and to just _dress like I'm supposed to_. He—he was drunk, I don't even know if he remembers. Well, he might. During the whole Kanima thing, when we were at the Jungle? He told me I don't 'dress like I'm gay', which is funny, because I _am_ bi, and the only reason I dress—like—like _this_ —" he waves a hand down at himself, "is because I didn't think——or I wanted to..."

Stiles makes a distressed, frustrated little noise and Derek decides that having a whole table between them just won't do when Stiles looks like he's about to _cry_ , so he gets up and walks over, turning the boy's chair so he can pull him into his arms, breathe him in. Stiles' face goes into the crook of his neck, arms wind up around his back, fingers pressing into shoulder blades.

"You should wear whatever makes you feel comfortable," Derek tells him, trying to suppress a growl, "whatever makes you feel _happy_ , and fuck anyone who says you can't or you shouldn't for any reason."

"Yeah," Stiles breathes, and then giggles a little; "I don't know why I ever thought you'd say any different. You're awesome, you know that?"

"So are you," Derek tells him, and feels whatever tension Stiles had left ease, his scent overflowing with timid joy.

"I, umm, there might be something else, too?" And he sounds so unsure that Derek has to pull back and kiss him, just to wipe the uneasiness away. Stiles grins at him, but his hands are playing with the hem of Derek's shirt now, nervous.

"I'm not—I'm still—my gender? It's—I've really looked into this, and I've thought about it, and, I'm pretty sure I'm non-binary, or at least gender-nonconforming, and even though I don't really know _what_ exactly to call it, I do know it's a little different, and—and I think I want my pronouns to be—to be 'they'? I just think—I mean... It would make me feel more comfortable. 'He', it's never really felt right."

Derek smiles at him, kisses his nose where it's all scrunched up with worry, and says, "Okay. I love you."

Because, yes, this changes some things, but it's not about gender, for him, it's about _Stiles_.

"You're really," Stiles seems a little bemused that Derek's taking this so well, "you're just okay with it?"

Derek shrugs, "It's a little new for me, I'm not gonna lie, and I might forget the right pronoun a few times, but—Stiles. I'm, I _love_ you, and everything that you are, and everything that you _will_ be. _This_ is who you are. Why would I be anything other than happy that you trusted me enough to tell me? That, now that I know, you'll be able to be your complete self around me?"

Stiles blushes a bright, spectacular sort of red.

"I love you," he breathes, and hauls Derek in for a filthy kiss, "I really, really love you. You're the fucking best."

* * *

Stiles looks gorgeous, and a hell of a lot more comfortable in their own skin, the glow of it, the grace, the fact that they just— _smile_ more.

Part of Derek wants to go accost John and beat the hell out of him, part of him just wants to revel in how happy this is making Stiles, how much they've bloomed in the past few weeks, growing their hair out, wearing things they _like_ to wear (and wearing them _well_ ), being who they are, who they always were, without judgment.

Or, at least, with a relative fuck you attitude toward whoever deigns to _cast_ judgment—they do live in a small town, after all.

They're wearing a white dress with a complicated, soft, fairy-tale sort of design, spaghetti straps, and a long, flowing, skirt. Knee-high black velvet stilettos, paired with black-velvet arm-sleeves and a simple sort of choker that has a cobalt-blue glass flower dangling from it.

It took Stiles awhile, to figure out their style, but now that they're free to explore, they don't feel rushed, just pleased to be able to dawn whatever makes them feel happiest and most comfortable in the moment. They'll wear dresses, or blouses with jeans, high heels or combat boots, suits or shirts with comic-inspired designs, sometimes with their short hair gelled back in a way that frames their face, sometimes braided with pretty little clips, sometimes just left the way it was when they woke up that morning.

And they fidget less, pick at themselves less, breathe easier.

It's not as if what happened with the Nogitsune is lessened, there are still nightmares, and days when Derek has to push them to eat, days when they are listless no matter how they push themselves, days, too, where the anger is insurmountable and the two of them are left sparring in the Preserve for hours on end.

The trauma is still there, but the freedom of their identity and their self-expression, it's a happy thing, a healthy thing, and the difference shows.

"Der," Stiles murmurs, hooking a strand of jaw-length hair behind their ear, "I think—I think—"

"What is it, baby?" Derek asks, moving away from his task of washing the dishes to walk over, see what's got them blinking dreamily up at him, long lashes dark with mascara, lips sparkle-glossy.

"I think I figured it out," they breathe, and their face brightens with the kind of shit-eating grin reserved for mischief and answers well-earned.

Derek grins back at them, just as ecstatic.

He's gonna see his _family_ again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depression, in a sense, also, our time-traveling bbs are f'ed up, but bamf

Peter and Derek are running from hunters when the most _inexplicable_ thing happens, at least in Peter's opinion.

Someone- he can't tell their gender exactly- with slicked-back brown hair, moon-silk skin dotted with moles, wearing a long-sleeved short-skirted dress, grey panty-hose and steel-toed boots, comes charging past them, calling a, "Tails!" to another person, man, who looks for all intents and purposes like a much _older_ version of the boy shivering in fear beside him.

The man flashes a sharp grin at them before taking a hard right where the other goes head-on, deliberately, _straight for_ the hunters.

Peter, breathing harshly from the run, and beyond curious despite himself, rushes a soft, "Stay here," to his nephew, who's trying desperately to keep Peter with him—but he has to see, he has to know what on earth is going on.

What he finds, upon catching up to the two, is not at all what he was expecting.

Doe-eyes, who's got a lithe-svelte frame that implies dancer rather than fighter, has brass-knuckles on, and they're _burning_ , liquid flame curling around doe-eyes' hands, but not, apparently, hurting them.

Doppelganger is lurking just behind, beta-shifted and... waiting?

Peter doesn't have long enough to even _guess_ at why before doe-eyes- flaming hands and all- enters the hunters' line of sight, there are _nine_ of them, and the kid just raises their hands and waggles their fingers around as if to say, _'look what I can do'_.

All eyes go to the kid, all guns, too, and Peter's starting to lament how insane his supposed rescuers are (because that's what they are, right?) seconds before doppelganger, having silently and perfectly skirted around the hunters' without their notice, strikes from behind, reaching around and unceremoniously clawing windpipes out of the two in the rear, their sounds of strangled and inevitably bloody carnage have the remaining seven turning and shooting around wildly, but doppelganger has already retreated behind the trees too quickly for them to catch.

Doe-eyes takes this opportunity to punch one in the back, in direct line of their kidney, Peter can hear the sizzle, the crunch, the scream that follows, and then the kid is jumping up, kicking the jaws of two others as they turn around to see the new fuss with a flip-twirl in mid-air.

Doppelganger jumps down from a tree, right on top of one, viciously twisting their neck until there's no doubt that they're a goner.

At this point, the hunters are reloading, but only one gets a chance to finish before doe-eyes has killed his three and moved onto a fourth, and doppelganger has extinguished two more.

The last points his gun with shaky hands, aiming for the kid, and both doppelganger and doe-eyes just stare at him as if he weren't anything more than a bug beneath their shoe.

At the exact moment he pulls the trigger, doe-eyes flings a handful of mountain-ash out, it encircles the hunter, and freezes the bullet in its place, the projectile making a whining noise as it fights the magical barrier, then there's a pop and it disappears altogether.

The hunter looks at the place where the bullet was with abject horror and mounting terror.

"Works both ways, jackass," doe-eyes says smugly.

"Do you think they'd even _know_ about mountain ash?" Doppelganger asks curiously, and the kid shrugs, reaching down to search out a shell-casing.

"Jack-rabbits?" Doe-eyes is obviously dubious, and doppelganger snorts.

"Metzger, so, no, they wouldn't. Too fanatical."

"Ah, that's—I mean, _should_ I feel pity? Or should I just be happy that's one less organization that has a leg up on us?"

Doppelganger doesn't say anything, but the corners of his lips twitch up, and there's amusement in his hazel eyes as the kid continues muttering all the while stalking over to the trapped, now-sniveling, man.

"So, what happened here today?" Doe-eyes asks the man, and he, for all his hitching breath and blotchy, tear-soaked cheeks, musters up some bravado under the intense scrutiny the little one levels on him, whiskey eyes scorching and deadly even as they stand nonchalantly as anything, a vague, apathetic smile on their face.

"The wolves did what they do best," he sneers, "they _killed."_

"Nope, try again."

"Fuck you, you're an _animal!"_ He spits on the ground in outrage, and doe-eyes sighs.

"Think about the Code," they say, slowly, as if he were a very young, very thick, child—which is kind of hilarious, considering doe-eyes looks about Derek's age, sixteen, seventeen, _maybe_ eighteen. "No Hale hurt anyone or anything, no member of the Beacon Hills Pack is responsible for any crime against you or anyone. And yet, you attacked them. We hunt those who hunt us, right?"

Reiterating what doe-eyes said earlier about the mountain-ash- which is something he had _not_ known, and he wonders why Deaton never saw fit to let anyone in on that fun little trick- doppelganger solemnly intones, "The Code works both ways."

"Fuck the Code!" The Hunter screams, "You're wolves! Abominations! Maybe you didn't hurt anyone yet, but you would have! We were tired of waiting, we wanted you vermin out of our sight, and now—now, you've proven just what you are!"

Doe-eyes blinks at him blankly for a few moments, and then squeals delightedly, fist-pumping and doing a wobbly dance of victory that has doppelganger snickering off to the side.

"Ahhh," doe-eyes sighs, evaporating the mountain-ash with a flick of their wrist so that doppelganger can slit the hunters' throat with his claws. "I love it when a good plan comes together. Who do we," the kid pulls a recording device from- well, Peter couldn't tell you where if he tried- and twirls it around in long, nimble fingers, whole body all of a sudden alight with frenetic energy, "send _this_ to?"

"Argents," doppelganger sighs, to which his companion immediately makes a face, and he shrugs. "They're local, they've got a treaty with us already, and as long as we get it to _Rohese_ instead of _Gerard_ we should be fine."

Doe-eyes flinches at _'Gerard'_ \- which is curious- but inclines their head with a sigh, conceding.

Peter's still wondering at the man's wording— _'us'_ , as if he were already part of a Pack that, as far as Peter knows, has no business with him, whoever he may look like. The kid did it, too, a little more subtly, when talking to the hunter about the Code.

He's pulled out of his pensive observations when doe-eyes calls out a very cheerful, "Creeperwolf! Get out of your _creepy_ stalker bush and take us to your leader."

Doppelganger rolls his eyes fondly, both of his rescuers coming up to him, now—and, really, has he lost his touch? Normally _Talia_ can't even find him when he's melded into the shadows such as he is now.

"What they _mean_ to say, is: Peter Hale, we would like to formally request an audience with your Alpha, as we have business with your Pack."

Doe-eyes waves a flippant hand, "Yeah, yeah, that."

Peter, dumbfounded, but no less intrigued, raises his eyebrows at both of them. Doppelganger flashes his eyes, Beta-blue, and Peter flashes his back, then doe-eyes, surprisingly, flashes _his_ eyes, like mercury, silver-fog, mists.

"C'mon, dude," they say impatiently, "I'm covered in—in—"

"Viscera?" Peter supplies, and doe-eyes makes a gagging noise before, well, leading the way.

Because they apparently _know_ the way.

Huh.

* * *

Talia makes a strangled noise that Peter might find amusing under any other circumstances. Part of him is already wishing their hearts had told the lie, but he knows it's the truth, not just because of their heartbeats, but because of the way doppelganger looks and smells so sincerely, biologically, like _Derek_.

Doe-eyes- Stiles- on the other hand, does have the faintest scent of the Deputy lingering on them, and has, as evidenced, very _powerful_ magic.

So, here stand before them, time-travelers.

They've come to change the past, they say, though they refrain from divulging what that past necessarily _is_. Pater's sure it must've been...

It's just, Older Derek looks _aged_ , and he doesn't talk much unless he really needs to, and he's very _rough_ around the edges, a sort of constipated face, or scowl, on and in full force ever since he set foot in the house.

Stiles has that same haunt in their wide, brown-sugar deep-well eyes, and their skin is pale- perhaps normally fair, but tinged a little yellow-grey, now, like sickness or the shadow of death still lingering- with the exception of the dark bags right underneath those eyes.

To both be so... It must've been something _horrible_.

And Talia, she's a good mother, she _knows_ this is her son, and she's clever enough to come to the same conclusion he has. Whatever has made the two of them like this, also made them desperate enough to come back and _stop_ it.

"Well, then," she decides with a decisive clap of her hands, "welcome to the Pack, to the _family_. Whatever you may need, my Left and Right and I will be here to help you."

Stiles grins at her, "Cool," they say, inclining their head toward Peter and Carlow both, signifying understanding, before tapping older Derek on the shoulder with a two-knuckled rap, "Der and I are gonna head out to, hopefully, buy a loft that may or may not be on market, or——wait, were you squatting?" Stiles turns furrowed eyes and a frown at Derek who, actually, looks a little _sheepish_.

"Oh my god," Stiles breathes, aghast, then, mutters, "I guess I should be thankful it wasn't an abandoned train station. Okay, fuck the loft, an apartment, we'll find an apartment."

Derek shrugs, as if to say _'fair'_ , like he really couldn't care less where he stayed, that, along with the atrocious insinuations of where he lived _previous_ (and Peter really can't imagine _any_ situation where their Alpha would allow her son to _squat_ ) must prompt Talia into action, because she says, with a tight smile, eye twitching, "Can't you just stay here?"

Peter thinks if they decline her Talia might actually lose control—whether that means breaking down into hysterics, or, more likely, wolfing out and curling protectively around her aged son, he doesn't know. But it'll be interesting and amusing no matter how it turns out, he suspects.

Stiles looks up at Derek, and Derek's face does a few very, very funny things before he finally shrugs and just nods.

Stiles grins, literally _climbs_ onto the man's back, Derek allows this with little more than a grunt, but his eyes soften with fondness, and his arms eventually wind under Stiles' thighs, keeping them stable and basically granting the piggyback they commandeered with sheer force of will.

"Do we get a room?" They ask excitedly, and Derek snorts, the first show of emotion from him Talia has seen, which, of course, has her beaming.

Their Pack-bonds slip into place, Derek's with an odd, overlayed dissonance, and Stiles' thrumming with vibrancy and _power_.

* * *

That morning, things are a little different in the Hale household. The rest of the Pack was informed by Talia as to what was going on, why they suddenly had two new Pack-mates overnight, no one more dubious about this than younger Derek, who was dumbfounded by the fact that his older-self was in the kitchen _cooking_ , and had been since before _Talia_ woke up.

And their Alpha, they all know, is an exceedingly early riser.

Stiles, who was completely unabashed in informing them that they identified as non-binary, for all that their gender expression tended to weigh heavily on the feminine side, sat cross-legged on the counter with little Mikey in their lap.

Talia's youngest had woken up at around the same time Talia had, and, somehow, had escaped from his mother to play with Stiles, who didn't seem to mind at all. Good with kids, that one, Peter noted as he watched Stiles make wild gestures as they detailed a story about fighting a _dragon_ , which had Mikey about as endeared as any four-year-old could be with that subject.

"Which is _why_ , you should never try to fight the dragon, but instead go after the person most likely controlling them. They don't live in this realm, don't belong to it, and don't want to be here anyway."

"I still can't believe you had a rocket-launcher in the boot of your jeep. How did you even _get_ a rocket-launcher, anyway?" Derek asks, stirring something that both looks and smells _scrumptious_.

"You two are talking as if this actually _happened_ ," Illia chimes in an amused stage whisper, and Derek nods, Stiles offering a very brittle sort of smile.

"It did," they say, and if Peter couldn't read their body language, let alone their heartbeat, he might think they were trying to keep up the facade for the child, who was making disgruntled noises about being ushered off to go play with the twins by Talia who had offered twice now to help her future-son, to no avail, and seems to think the least she can do is keep the kids out of their hair.

"You're kidding," Phillip says, sleep-mussed, nursing a cup of coffee that Stiles apparently brewed—the best coffee he's ever had, if the way he moans with every sip and hordes it against his chest like a fucking treasure is any indication.

"Nope," Stiles says brightly, "there was a whole coven of witches, it was a big thing—and, for future reference, rocket-launchers don't do shit to a dragon."

"I'm pretty sure you just pissed her off."

"Yeah... and then there was Queen Mabh, and _Puck."_

"Puck was a cool guy," Derek laughs, swatting Stiles' hand away as they try to steal a fingerful of sauce from a pan.

"Like all the _other_ faeries set the bar so high! They tried to _eat_ me!" Stiles seems more annoyed and indignant than properly frightened, "Green bitches with wings," they mutter darkly, hopping off of the counter, flailing, stumbling, caught with a fond huff by Derek before actually righting themselves.

"Faeries?" Illia breathes faintly.

"Yep," Stiles pops the p, "Which, I guess we should be thankful we at least knew what those _were_ , I have studied your," they point at Peter, and he raises his eyebrows, "bestiary, _and_ the Argents' backwards and forwards, half of the things we've dealt with didn't even come up."

"I don't—" Peter starts, rethinks, amends, "I've yet to write any sort of bestiary."

"How did you get ahold of the _Argents'_ bestiary?" Illia demands.

Stiles shares an unreadable look with Derek, before they smack a loud, wet kiss on his cheek, and say, "Romeo and Juliet, basically."

And, then, they saunter off to indulge themselves in playing with the kids, making friendly with Laura and present-Derek with an enamored, delighted little Mikey on their hip.

Future-Derek becomes far more somber without his companion, and offers them only silence, no matter how they pry. It's a little disconcerting, considering his open, sweet, vulnerable, present-tense counterpart, but he makes up for it with the meal, which is _gorgeous_ , and how he touches, scents them all like he's half starved for it.

* * *

Stiles makes a little mournful noise in the back of their throat that has Peter looking up from his laptop. The kid has been occupying most of their time either going on dates with Derek, sparring with him in the Preserve, or, more recently- since they've goaded Derek into going back to college, even going so far as forging a whole identity for him so he _could_ ("Sure, we have things to do, but education is important, and we're going to have to have lives _after_ we keep all the bad shit from happening. Besides, it's no fair if I'm the only one who has to suffer.")- splitting their time after they get home from highschool either in the basement library or doing what they simply call _'recon'_.

They've gotten closer with present-Derek, who's completely and utterly besotted with a girl named Paige, and though they've admitted it's a little weird to be friends with the younger version of their boyfriend, they've also stated what is already plain to see: Derek and Der are entirely different people, and they're actively working to make sure it _stays_ that way.

They've also been working, much to present-Derek's delight, toward the idea of _telling_ Paige The Big Secret, they're close to getting Talia and Carlow's compliance, if only to quiet the constant supplication.

Peter wholeheartedly agrees with that plan, he'd been trying to convince Derek to tell her himself, to no avail; he supposes getting the parents' permission might be the thing that pushes him toward that, and a healthier, happier, longer relationship.

"What is it?" Derek asks, looking up from his homework.

Stiles, sitting next to him- taking full advantage of the table, with a few more than a dozen books all splayed out around them, a laptop open on the chair next to them and at least five used up sticky-note pads, a few notebooks filled with notes, and quite a couple of other miscellaneous potions and tomes and things- sighs very dramatically.

"Something broke one of my wards," they say woefully as they stand, black tuxedo, louboutins, forelocks pinned back by a plastic red hairclip, they look all business, with the exception of their fingers, painted with daisies. Their face, though, normally smirking and playful, becomes a harsh mask, eyes lit with silver-fire that demands blood be shed. "Something new."

And then they're walking off, powering through bookshelves to get to the tunnels. Derek shares a look with Peter, and with little more than a nod, the two are following them.

* * *

"Heads or tails?" Stiles asks once they catch up, falling into step on either side.

Peter raises an inquiring eyebrow, though he does seem to recall something...

"Why?" Derek asks, face scrunching up with confusion.

Stiles gives him a hard look and then shrugs, "So we can decide who's bait and who's attacking."

"You flip a coin for that?" Derek sounds incredulous, Peter isn't blaming him.

"Why not?"

A few coin tosses later, Derek's stuck as bait and Peter and Stiles are on offence.

* * *

"Fuck, what even _was_ that?" Derek's saying as he bursts in, Peter and Stiles stumbling in behind him.

"Dunno," Stiles laughs as they collapse next to a very surprised future-Derek, who must've gotten home while they were away. "Hi, babe."

"Stiles, you're covered in... what happened?"

"Wards, three-eyed horned things crawling out of trees," they wave a hand in Peter and present-Derek's general direction, "they helped."

Beyond a raised eyebrow and a slight nod, future-Derek doesn't really react, like his lover coming home covered in alien goop is the most normal thing in the world. Peter spares a moment for gut-churning worry about what all the time-travelers have been through that's so visceral he almost loses his lunch right then and there, before he walks wearily toward the bathroom for a much-needed shower.

* * *

It seems odd, after a few weeks of having them so unabashedly _there_ , that Stiles and future-Derek not be around. It's obvious (from heartbeat more than scent since their smells are as saturated in this house as any Pack-member's) that they're still _home_ , but neither has shown for breakfast or lunch, and both occasions had been oddly stilted without Stiles- who carries conversation like a _goliath_ , and conquers it the same, full of knowledge and sarcasm and _sound_ \- and Derek- who doesn't talk much, but who offers a gentling touch to _everyone_ , and smiles in a way that makes it seem like it _aches_ , but is still so soft and sweet and timid around the edges.

By now, Talia's a little worried, so he's not really surprised when, while she's washing the dishes, she drags him away from his work with a, "Will you go check on them?"

Not like he had been focusing much on work, anyway, and he's more than willing to acquiesce since he's almost as worried as she.

When he walks into their room- because privacy is novel to werewolves, and if they were doing anything that required him knocking he would have _heard_ it- he finds Stiles curled around Derek. They're both awake, Stiles holding him close, protective, all of their limbs wrapped around him. The kid's eyes flash up to his as they continue to run a soothing palm down Derek's back, fingers carding through his hair.

Derek doesn't move.

"What's up, Peter?" Stiles asks in a whisper, and maybe Derek _is_ asleep? Except, upon venturing further into the room, he finds the man's eyes are open, glassy, unresponsive, unblinking and staring off into the middle distance.

"Is he okay?" Peter has to ask, and for a second all manner of things run through his head (especially considering how these two go off in _search_ of trouble more often than not), a witch's curse that induces catatonia, white wolfsbane, gorgons—

"Yeah," Stiles smiles grimly, "he just gets like this sometimes."

Oh.

If possible, that's more unsettling.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Peter asks, because he needs to do _something_ , doesn't he?

"Um, an apple? A bottle of water? I mean, he might not, but it wouldn't hurt to _try_ ," Stiles doesn't mention getting anything for them, but Peter- having seen the way Stiles struggles sometimes- makes the executive decision to grab two apples from the fridge and two bottles of water from the pantry for the purposes of inclusion.

Talia snags him on the way back upstairs and asks over the sound of the TV and Laura playing with Mikey, present-Derek roughhousing with the twins who've apparently decided that painting his nails is their _goal_ in life, "Are they okay?"

Peter thinks on that a moment, and looks her dead-on when he says, "I don't think they ever really have been, no."

She seems taken aback for a moment, but then she blinks, lips in a thin line, eyes turned down with sorrow and resignation and some sort of hopeless fury. She nods her understanding, waves him off, takes a deep, steadying breath that doesn't do much to steady her at all.

They're in the same position he left them in when he returns; he gives both apples and water-bottles to Stiles, who makes an inquisitive noise at the extras.

"For you," he says, and they smile with a little _'ah'_ sound. He sits on the rocking chair in the corner of their room, unable and unwilling to leave them, but not really able to provide anything but his own presence, however little it might do. Stiles seems to get it though, giving him a little nod before sitting up, manhandling the man beside them until he's sitting up, too.

Derek leans limp, pliant, against the headboard, head down and shoulders slumped, side pressed fully against Stiles'. They try to get him to drink, first, all soft words and tentative hands, "C'mon, Der, just take a little sip for me, my love, please?... That's it, there you are, just one more, good job, darling, thank you."

After they've gotten him to swallow down half the bottle, he shies away with a tiny, subvocal whine, and Stiles responds immediately, setting the water on the nightstand and hauling him into a hug, cooing gentle, tender, nonsensical soothing things.

Derek starts to shake, arms coming up to wrap around them, tight and trembling, as they lay them both back down.

"Yeah, we're not getting to that apple today, are we? Hush, that's alright, darling, you did enough, it's okay. You're good, you're _safe_ , I've got you. I've got you, Der."

Derek buries his face into Stiles' shoulder, a heartbreaking sob tearing through him as Stiles rocks them both, and that's—that's all Peter can fucking take before he's tearing out of the rocking chair and crawling into bed with them, curling up behind his nephew's back. Stiles meets his eyes over Derek's shoulder, and Peter, feeling small tremors running through this man in their arms, has to swallow past the sudden ache in his heart.

"Werewolves are tactile," he explains, and hates the way his voice cracks. Stiles searches his face for a moment before reaching over and taking his hand, lacing their fingers together over Derek's hip with a decisive nod.

The scent of tears and pain and despair must be strong because, as the day continues, the rest of the Pack all amble in. Phillip first, who doesn't even say anything, just looks unbearably sad as he goes to lay by their feet, hands wrapping loosely around Derek's ankle. Then it's Laura, the present-tense version of Derek (who seems shocked and confused, both, that his future counterpart could be like this), Talia, eventually Carlow and Illia and Cat and Cora with little Mikey on all of their heels.

The bed isn't nearly big enough for all of them, but they manage to pile in anyway, tangling themselves around the couple in the middle, comforting Derek as he weeps in Stiles' arms.

They all fall asleep like that, weathering the storm together.

* * *

Peter's woken up barely three hours later, they _all_ are, by the sounds of _screaming_ , honest to god, terrified, horrified, gutted screams. His eyes instantly snap open, claws out, looking for the threat, but all he finds is Stiles.

Derek's behind them- he doesn't seem entirely _there_ , but he's more aware then he's been all afternoon- their back pulled into his chest, his arms around their torso, legs bracketing their hips.

"Wake up, shh, shh, Stiles, it's okay. Wake up, baby, you're safe, it's just a nightmare, just a dream, baby, come on, wake up." The words are eerily similar to the ones Stiles offered him earlier, just as practiced, just as... _normal_ for them.

The rest of the Pack, all woken just the same as he, crowd in around them, offer support and touch and whispered kindnesses. Stiles, when they do manage to wake up, is choking on every breath, desperately wiping at their eyes so they can see their fingers, so they can _count_ them.

Derek takes their hands in his, counts with them, chin hooked over their shoulder, and forces them to breathe with the counting, which helps them finally calm, _settle_. After a while, when Stiles no longer needs to obsessively count their fingers to make well and truly sure they're _awake_ , they turn in Derek's arms, bury their face into his chest, tucked underneath his chin, and unspool, cry with deep, hitched breaths, but it at least doesn't sound like they're being strangled by the air anymore, and their heartbeat stays steady after the initial panic.

Peter- along with the rest of the Pack- wraps his arms around both of them, and wonders, not for the first time, as tears sting his eyes, what the hell happened to them. They're so strong, _broken_ , dauntless, _haunted_ , kind beyond anything he's ever seen, bound in a way he doesn't think he'll ever understand. Fragile. Brave.

He understands, after seeing them both like this, why they had to come back to stop it, whatever it is that made them this way.

He hopes with everything he has that they do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> referenced child abuse

Camden hates his father, and he loves his brother more than anything. He does. And when he's eighteen he's going to the army and he's going to get his shit together, money, he hopes, enough connections to adopt Isaac and get the fuck away from that man. For now, the best he can do, the best he's been able to do, is take Isaac to work with him, lock him in his room when it gets too bad, pray he's doing enough to protect him, pray his little brother will be strong enough to live without him for the few years it may take to get everything sorted.

His day to day life is pretty hectic, he's got school, three jobs, and a kid to take care of. So, he doesn't pay much mind to things he probably should, like how, even though all the bruises do, the cigarette burns never take, and that one time Jeffrey accidentally knocked him into the fucking frier... yeah, that didn't do shit either. It's part of the reason why he doesn't notice them, at first, the two new regulars at the Diner he works at as the waiter, busboy, he sometimes does dish when there's need, and he doesn't get paid near enough, but the owners are friends, and they feed him and Isaac, so it's fine.

The two new guys always get something different, always get a copious amount, and always get a huge, heaping side of curly fries. One of them looks like a student he goes to school with that's a year under him, he could be the carbon copy, his twin, if he weren't so much older. The other doesn't look or act much like _anyone_ he's ever met before. Once, they sauntered in with their chocolate hair all pinned up in curls, dark makeup and an elegant black dress that probably cost an arm and a leg—they had looked nothing short of a Goddess. Once, they came dressed down in a blouse, jeans, sensible heals. A few times they just wore baggy clothes that they probably borrowed from the other guy they're always with, and, on numerous occasions, they just wore messy hair, comfy, comic-inspired t's, vans, pants with a lot of pockets, and a red hoodie.

No matter what they're wearing, though, M—ah, huh. They're an interesting fellow but he can't seem to remember... Weird. Anyway, no matter what they're wearing, they're always full of chatter, bouncing off of a hundred different subjects hyper, and they, along with their companion- who's much more the silent, death-glare, growl and grunt, type- are aways, always _his_ customers.

It doesn't seem like they do it on purpose, but considering- ahmmm, it starts with an M? Or an S?- the fancy-dressed one is always, somehow, managing to spot Isaac and coo over and play with him, their stony-faced partner even offering _smiles_ his little brother's way, he's beginning to suspect. Especially since their tips are _massive_.

He's grateful, if mildly weirded out.

* * *

The bell on the front door jingles, someone in front calls out an order- and it must be Charlene because it sounds like gibberish through a mouth full of bubblegum and light brogue- and the dim, crackly, orange overhead light is glaring against the soapsuds and the particularly shiny dishes he's already cleaned. He keeps flashing reassuring smiles to Isaac who's playing with a firetruck and a toy train on the counter; when his little brother notices, he smiles back.

It's almost closing time, all he's really got to do is finish up, hang out in his car with Isaac for awhile, and then start the newspaper route. Today, luckily, is Thursday, one of those days he doesn't actually need or have to go home- extra lucky because his father had been drunk and temperamental last night, he's pretty sure he's got at least two cracked ribs, and he's been pushing himself too goddamn hard all day. But you do what you gotta do to survive, and it's amazing the things you can become used to.

Donahue saunters past him holding at least four trays, and god _damn_ him for waiting until _now_ to bring them, but he actually _brought_ them this time, instead of punching out without ordering his station like he's fucking supposed to, so there's that.

"You've got those two big-tippers of yours waiting out back for you, brother," he drawls, ruffling Isaac's thick curls and tickling him behind the neck a bit with a large, yellow-toothed grin.

Camden furrows his brow, "Why?"

"I dunnow," the older man grunts, pinching Isaac's cheek and earning himself a petulant sort of face from the five-year-old. "I dun' talk to strangers, man. Just thought I oughtta warn yah."

"Thanks, Donnie."

"Sure thing, brother," he gives Isaac a fist-pump, makes an exaggerated explosion noise with a flourish that makes the kid snort, shakes his head, and then fucks off to punch out or flirt with Echo.

"By-by Dodo!" Isaac calls after him, before he returns to his game.

Camden wonders what the fuck his regulars are doing outside the restaurant, _waiting_ for him. What do they want? Are they secretly out for a weird threesome sex thing? Do they want to take him to some unspecified location to kill him and kidnap his brother, or something? Okay, so maybe he's a little paranoid, sue him.

No matter what, though, this is the kind of thing that deserves a little paranoia... right?

* * *

When he clocks out- leaves from the back exit out into the side alley that has a little fenced in seat and table area and two of those ginormous street-ash-tray things, since this is where people normally take their breaks- they're there, just like Donahue said they would be, sitting pretty as you please, waiting for him.

"Mischief!" Isaac squeals, delightedly, slipping his hand out of Camden's and running up to the fashionably-dressed one- flowers in their hair, knee-high stilettos, pale blue dress, cute, sensible leather jacket- who immediately hops out of their chair to pluck him up, hands going underneath his armpits, holding him at arms length and twirling him around in a ballet spin- that must require an insane amount of strength and agility in those heels, and makes Camden's eye twitch- before hugging him close with laughing breathlessly.

"Isaac! How are you my little superhero?"

"I'm awesome! Um, um," his eyes flit to Camden, who offers an encouraging smile and a prompting nod, they've talked about this, "thank you," Isaac finally manages shyly in a small voice, and Camden beams proudly. His little brother is going to be the most polite child on the planet, he's sure.

Mischief- and, is that really their name?- makes a small, choked noise and tugs Isaac in closer, "By the Goddess, you are the most adorable thing in existence, aren't you?"

"M'not adorable," Isaac protests, muffled against their shoulder, all too happy to worm his arms around their neck and cuddle into their hold, "I'm _handsome."_

"Of course, of course," Mischief agrees seriously, mouthing _'adorable'_ at Camden with a twinkle in their eye while they pat Isaac's back comfortingly, soothing the perceived slight.

"So," tall, dark-haired, and mountain-man scruff/muscle begins, "we have some business to discuss with you."

Camden raises his eyebrows, going over to snatch Isaac from Mischief, deliberate and protective, they smile softly at him and relinquish his little brother with an understanding in their eyes that only manages to soothe his now rising nerves by about an inch, if that.

"What sort of business?" He asks warily.

The man, who's sculpted like an adonis, and wearing clothes that wouldn't be unwelcome in a biker bar, stands—it's a threatening enough movement that Camden takes a step back. He scowls at this, and sits back down with a put-upon sigh. He and Mischief share a glance before the less obviously intimidating of the two- despite the height their heels gives them- steps forward.

"Look, I'm gonna do something, and I really need you to not freak out, okay? I also might need you to put Isaac down, for safety purposes?"

"Safety purposes?" He asks- his voice coming out higher than he'd like, but _come on!_ Does that not sound threatening to you?- at the same time Isaac goes, "What're you gonna do to my big brother?" All protective petulance, hands fisted into Camden's collar, and Camden would be especially proud- loyalty and bravery, that's like, one thousand points to Gryffindor, right there- if he weren't panicking so badly.

"I'm gonna teach your brother how to be a superhero," Mischief answers Isaac, smiling though his eyes are entirely serious, then, before he has a chance to really react, tall and handsome and eerily ninja-silent, whisks his brother out of his arms, and away a safe distance before Mischief throws, for lack of a better word, a _fire-ball_ at him.

Only, it doesn't burn, he feels something within him expand, release, and then he's _all_ flame. Liquid fire-light and _breathing_ easier than he ever has before in his life. Holy shit, _holy shit_ , "Holy _shit."_

Mischief snorts, "So," they say, "welcome to the supernatural, Camden. I'm a Spark," their eyes flash some sort of melted silver, "Der's a werewolf," handsome flashes his eyes electric, glowing blue, "and you're a Hellhound."

Isaac is gaping, eyes wide, for a few long moments, before he begins to clap, bouncing himself on handsome's hip, "Cammy's a superhero! Cammy's a superhero!"

Mischief grins, the mercury smoothing back to maple-syrup between one blink and the next.

"We want to teach you about your gifts, Camden, about what you are, and," they frown slightly, "we want you to join our Pack."

"Your Pack?" Camden asks, weakly, the flames finally dying down with a mere thought from him. He wonders, in the back of his mind, how no one noticed, and how his clothes aren't currently ash (he'll later find out that Stiles cast a sustainability fire-proof spell on them, and has enough perception filters on themselves and future-Derek to confuse and muddle _anyone's_ ability to, well, _perceive_ them, and all it took was extending those reverse-geas to _him_ while he was all... flame-y), but doesn't question it at the moment, he's in too much shock from turning into a human match-stick.

"Our Pack," the guy- Der?- agrees, before hoisting Isaac further up his hip and walking away without further explanation. Mischief smiles slightly at him, claps a hand on his shoulder, and herds him after them.

* * *

Camden, of course, misses his newspaper route, he wouldn't have even called in sick if Stiles hadn't reminded him to after he was already an hour late. His stalking suspicions, by the way, totally justified and spot-on, completely fucking spot-on.

They explain some things, and are far too vague about other things, but the gist of it ends up being: A werewolf Pack plus High Mage noticed a Hellhound, stalked him a little, and realized that he was 1) alone, and 2) in a shitty situation. So, they decided to recruit him, because it's always helpful to have new power added to the Pack—every Pack-bond increases the power of the Alpha-spark, which bolsters all of their Betas, and strengthens the Pack in general, the stronger the bond, the more power it gives. And they want desperately to adopt him and Isaac because of their aforementioned shitty situation, Stiles and future-Derek both claiming that they deserve a _home_ , a proper family.

The rest of the Pack seemed surprised, and a little more laid back about it, but, Talia, the Alpha, gave both him and his little brother the kindest most motherly smile he'd had directed toward him in his entire life and told him to think on it, that their home, their Pack, would be open to him, whatever he decided. She also said, her smile sharper, that she was a lawyer, and having two new sons among her brood didn't faze her in the slightest. Past-Derek and Laura gave him a hug before he went to leave, Isaac, Mikey, and the twins had practically become thick as thieves by the end of it.

Within two hours his whole life changed, and not because of the revelation about _what_ he really was.

 _Family_ , he thought to himself, looking into his brother's clear, innocent, lightly shadowed eyes. _Safety_.

Within a month the Lahey boys were moved into the Hale house, and Talia and Peter were making a case against their father. Within the year Camden and Isaac Lahey became Camden and Isaac Hale.

* * *

Meredith feels it, like a bubble full of air and unease deep, deep in the pit of her stomach. Her family thinks she's crazy, most of her friends think she's overly eccentric, some of them even think she's doing it for attention. She thinks the three times she's ended up finding a dead body and screaming until the windows shatter should be a testament to how _not fake_ this is, but no one believes her, so she keeps her mouth shut, and swallows down the sounds that want to escape her.

The bubble expands.

The voices of the dead get louder.

She wonders how much longer until she explodes, cracks, becomes a vessel for noise that belongs beyond the veil, not in her mouth, not on her tongue, until all she can taste is graveyard dirt.

But she questions, _really_ questions her sanity the day that she's _shaking_ from holding it back, the day she's about to open her mouth to let it out to just release _some of it_ , because it _hurts_ , and she's sure, she's so sure it's _killing_ her. It doesn't matter that she's in the middle of a classroom, it doesn't matter that something of this magnitude could hurt the people around her—she tried getting a hallpass, getting a safe distance away, but the teacher wouldn't let her and, god, her head is pounding, it's just increasing, increasing, making it hard to breathe, clawing persistently at her throat. Just when she makes the conscious decision to unlock her jaw, to _finally_ , finally accept the fate this will bring, to release the bubble of compressed _Death_ within her, someone- gender indiscernible- who looks about the same age as her **pops** into existence in front of her desk.

Out of nowhere.

Out of nothing.

And it doesn't seem like anyone else can see them.

Okay, maybe she _is_ crazy.

"Do you need to scream, Meredith?" They ask, sympathy and understanding in their brown-sugar eyes. The sound she makes at that can only really be called a whimper, and she nods, eyes burning with tears. They smile softly at her, hold out their hand. "Then come with me," they say.

She swallows convulsively, making another helpless noise before she grasps their thin, bony, _steady_ hand with her trembling one. As soon as her skin meets theirs, they're both somewhere else, a forest, the Preserve, and there's someone there to meet them, they look strong, sensible, and their smile is half angelic, half sheepish, before they're on fucking _fire_.

"Okay, Meredith," the weird, possible hallucination, teleport-y person chimes behind her, _"scream."_

And that's all it takes.

The bubble pops, all that air flows out, and the sound _shreds_ out of her at the same time a warm, warm body envelops her, flames that don't burn lick up her skin, smoke that doesn't make her ache twists around the sound coming out of her. It's the most cathartic, overwhelmingly _wonderful_ thing she's ever experienced.

And who knew a human torch could give such great hugs?

* * *

When she wakes up, she's laid out on a couch with lightly singed hair and empty lungs, the voices quieter than they've ever been, and no less than five people in the living room with her, all of them doing their own thing, talking, watching TV, like her being there is entirely normal.

"Um," she begins succinctly, grey eyes traveling a little blearily around her surroundings, taking them in.

"Oh," the fire guy from earlier says, "you're awake."

There's a kid on his lap who jumps up and flails a little bit, bare feet on pyro's thighs, before he steadies himself and shoots her a smile that makes her think of marshmallows and kittens, it's that adorable.

"My name's Isaac!" The boy crows, excited, "Welcome to the Pack!"

"Ah, ah, ah," a woman in a slinky, bohemian-type dress tuts, all dark curls and olive skin and twinkling hazel eyes. Meredith thinks that if it were possible for Gaia to have an aura, it would be remarkably similar to this woman's. "Don't get too ahead of yourself, dear, we haven't even popped the question yet."

The teleporter from before snorts as they walk in with a plate of cookies, offering some first to her (and she's surprisingly hungry, so she takes a few despite herself, and is eternally grateful she did. They're the best goddamn cookies she's ever had), then to Isaac and Pyro, then to another little boy with wild black hair and startling blue eyes, then the motherly woman, then the lady who could _only_ be the motherly woman's daughter (the only difference in appearance being hair length, youth, an abundance of tattoos, and the girl having heavier set eyebrows), a man with brown hair, a thick neck, and eyes like ice, all before they plop themselves down on the lap of a man with raven hair, hazel eyes, and who's practically the older mirror-image of Derek Hale.

"You probably have a lot of questions of your own," the woman begins, and isn't _that_ an understatement, "let's start with introductions. I'm Talia Hale, that's my little brother Peter-" thick neck nods- "my daughter Laura-" victorian gothic, _amazing_ eyeshadow (Meredith may or may not already have a girl crush), waves with a pleasant, sienna-lipped smile- "my sons Camden-" pyro grins, beatific- "Isaac-" the child garbles something through a mouthful of chocolate melty goodness that she can't decipher- "Mikey-" wild black hair, pale, pale skin, and startling, electric eyes smiles shyly at her- "and Derek. Oh, and that's Stiles."

Stiles winks at her, Derek rolls his eyes, and Meredith feels the need to ask, "You've named two of your sons _Derek?"_ Because her mind's already boggled by the sheer _amount_ of children this woman has, but naming two of them the same thing just seems like bad etiquette. And she'll blame her odd, sleep-fuzzy head that that's the first thing she asks, because seriously, there are so many more important questions, with higher priorities.

Stiles chokes on a startled laugh, waves a hand around and says, a little too lightly, "Or something like that. Don't think too hard on it, we'll tell you later."

Because the Hales, apparently, _do_ have their priorities in order, hence why the next four hours are spent explaining what _they_ are, what _she_ is ("So I'm not crazy?" "No, honey. Well, no more than anyone is."), what a Pack is, and Pack dynamics.

Talia is the Alpha, a full-shift werewolf, Carlow is her Mate, her Right Hand, Peter is her Left Hand, her warrior, and Laura is the Alpha in training. There's a man named Deaton, their advisor, their Emissary, and there's Stiles, who's like a second Emissary, a High Mage, and much more powerful than Deaton could ever be (though he's pretty humble about it).

Most of the rest of them- ignoring their species, because being human, Hellhound, Banshee, or a different type of 'were, doesn't necessarily affect your Pack status, or where you're placed in the hierarchy- are Betas.

They explain, too, what Omegas are, and suddenly some of the bodies she's found, some of the things she's heard from beyond the veil, and Beacon Hills' death rate, in general, make a _lot_ more sense. There's talk of a Nemeton, and telluric currents, and what they, as the protectors, holders of this territory _do_ to keep it safe, keep it theirs. There's a lot more politics involved in it than she'd expect, a lot more dangers, and things/people (like, for instance, _hunters_ ) always working against them. But Pack protects Pack, they're not just family to each other, it's deeper than that, _more_.

So, having a Pack, having Pack- _bonds_ , grants lots of things—people who understand you, who would protect you with their life and trust you to protect them with yours, _strength_ , in more ways than one, stability, love. Instincts come with it, as well, even if she were just human she'd have them. A need to submit and listen to her Alpha and those higher up the hierarchy, the yearning to be accepted, to protect her Pack-mates, to be close, to be tactile, and it would be easier for her to understand them, their needs and body language and animalistic tendencies. Becoming Pack would also make teaching her, getting her an Anchor, easier.

They don't want to pressure her, she doesn't _have_ to be Pack, but there is no way to bind or cure or negate the powers of a Banshee; she is what she is, no matter what. And they have to protect their territory. So, a compromise, so she doesn't actually blow up a bunch of people with the power of sound- if she _doesn't_ become Pack, they will still teach her, though they will be admittedly less involved, less inclined to protect and nurture, and she'll be working more with Deaton than with anyone else. They'll teach her how to live as normally as possible with her condition, nothing much beyond that, and...

That sounds so lonely. Terribly lonely, and she's lived almost her entire life that way, with brittle relationships and condescension and fear. She's been curious, but beaten into timidity, brash, but listening to the voices makes her want to be quiet, still, because maybe then they'll just shut up and no one will notice her. That she's _Other_.

But all of these people, they're _Other_ , too. They're kind, and warm, welcoming, sugar-coated and all swathed in nurture, how on _earth_ could she turn something like that down?

"I- I formally," she stutters on the unknown words, the formality of it, but Talia is smiling encouragingly, and at some point, Laura and Stiles moved to sit on either side of her, both of their bodies a line of heat, reassuring, Laura's hand wrapped around her shoulders, "accept the invitation to join your Pack."

Stiles stands with a fist-bump and a loud "Whoop!"

Isaac starts excitedly chattering on about how he- "knew it! I _knew_ it! I said so!" "Yes, you did," Camden agrees kindly, as everyone else bursts into congratulations and clapping and she feels something, right underneath her heart, **click** , gently into place.

Laura, beside her, smiles wide, "You're one of us, now, Merry," she says, and Meredith has never, in her life, felt more _validated_ , accepted, proud, fucking _happy_.

When the time comes to go home, she goes reluctantly, Stiles giving her a ride, Laura coming with and, eventually, badgering her parents into allowing a sleepover. How the older girl did it, she'll never know, but that night, she curls up with the person who, one day, will become her Alpha, and she feels content.

 _Safe_.

* * *

The next day, at school, things are different, her _Pack_ is with her.

There's Stiles, who apparently has an aura-type reverse geas thing on them that makes it impossible for other people to remember their name, their features, unless they've disabled it from working on the person specifically or they're Pack, which explains why she's never noticed them before, though they're in many of her classes. Camden, only sharing one class with her, but who is a constant presence all the same. present-Derek, who's a year below all of them, but tries to touch- _scent mark_ \- each of them at least once in between every class, and who spends lunch with them, bringing a clever girl named Paige along with him.

They eat at the picnic tables outside, a little more exclusive, hidden, closer to the Preserve, easier for Peter, future-Derek, and Laura to sneak over and join them. And it's often the latter two, along with Talia, who come pick them up _after_ school, before picking up the little ones from kindergarten and elementary (Peter's work making him too busy to allow it).

Some nights she stays at the Hale house, all of them, often, curling up on the bean bags and couches on the round rug in the basement library, getting tangled up with each other as much as physically possible.

Some nights Laura and Stiles drive her home and drop her off, a few times, Laura- tattoos and older bad-girl persona be damned- wheedles Meredith's parents into letting her sleep over.

Camden only needs to help her through a few more _explosive_ episodes as she learns to be more capable in controlling the screams, wails, and as she learns she begins to _help_. They start finding rogue Omegas before they even get the _chance_ to kill, and she trains, learns how to use her gift- because it _is_ a gift, now- to fight alongside her Pack-mates, to keep them as safe as they keep her.

She is needed.

She is loved.

And, god, does she love in return.


	4. Chapter 4

There's a day, just like Stiles knew there would be, when a scream rips its way out of Meredith's throat, a prediction of a death that cannot be averted. They know this because, before time-travel even became their set goal, before they and Derek were even really friends, before, even, they were diagnosed themselves, the Nogitsune's morbid trick—they'd asked.

_Could my mom have been saved?_

The answer, because they were never a lucky person, was: _No._

Frontotemporal Dementia, along with most other degenerative or neurological diseases, cannot be cured with the Bite, if anything, the Bite may just exacerbate the problem. Stiles has theories about this, that maybe people with genes, even dormant, that could allow for diseases like that, are more likely to reject the Bite. Either way, it doesn't matter, because the day comes, when Meredith wails for Claudia Stilinski, and they have to tell their Pack, their friends, that there is nothing to be done.

It's not a good day for them, for _any_ of them, and it ends, horribly, terribly, with Stiles clinging to their Derek, body wracking with sobs, muttering pleas and grief incoherently into their lover's shoulder.

Meredith comes to them first, desolate and apologetic and slightly horrified. She curls up between them, and she cries, too, her desperate need to help frustrated and halted, leaving her helpless and heartbroken. Then it's Laura, all comfort-soothe, singing ancient wolven lullabies in her deep, throaty voice, rumbling sub-vocal growl offering an ethereal background cadence that makes it all the more beautiful. With her, eventually, comes everyone else. Some don't touch, just sit around their bed, listen, offer sympathy and support by just _being there_.

Her voice pours into the air like silken wine, and Stiles breathes, sleeps; the nightmares don't come.

* * *

Stiles ducks under the punch, redirects themself with the force of propulsion, turns into the spin to catch Derek under the ribs with the steel-toes of their boot. Derek doesn't falter, despite the crunch of broken bone, tucks down to leap forward, circle, kick up at Stiles' legs. Stiles catches him, parries with their own kick only to leave their left undefended, another kick and they're down, rolling with the fall to get back up again. Derek goes in for another kick, but he's aiming low, and Stiles manages to distract him before deftly twirling into a high kick that knocks the man upside the head, then they're both backing off a little, circling each other, watching, waiting for tells.

It's been a week since Stiles' mother died. The impotence of it, the frustration, the loss, the wound that's been clawed open and abused with salt and vinegar and lemon juice has overwhelmed them. Derek understands, he _always_ understands, and has been a constant, steady presence, along with the rest of the Pack. He doesn't object, even though this is the fourth night in a row that Stiles has dragged him out to the Preserve to spar, he does, however, make Stiles eat, even when it's been _so hard_ , herds _everyone_ with little more than a look into the basement's library, because he knows that without the whole Pack to surround them Stiles would never sleep. And even when they _do_ sleep——

Their play-fight ends with exhaustion more the winner than either of them. At some point, Camden, Phillip, and Peter found them, began watching quietly.

"Nogitsune," Stiles begins immediately, because it's been that sort of day. They're panting and sweaty and breathless; Derek, for all his werewolf prowess, only looks better by a small margin. He grimaces at the mention of the demon who still lives in the roots of the Nemeton, a threat they haven't taken care of yet, the one they're saving for last.

"Basilisk," he decides, and Stiles actually snorts.

"Leviathan, a flock of harpies, um... I don't think the Alpha Pack would've gotten us there."

"No, but a Gorgan might've, a Cluster of Tsuchigumo _definitely_ would've... Maybe an ogre?"

"No, come on, ogres are _idiots_. Give us _some_ credit."

Derek just smirks and shrugs, "You kept leaving your left open."

Stiles sighs, because they _did_ , and Peter pipes up, "Are you two seriously debating which type of creature would've killed you had that been a serious fight?"

Derek and Stiles turn to blink at the 'were before answering, almost simultaneously, "Yes."

"You're crazy," he says, shaking his head in disbelief as he makes to stand with a huff of incredulity. Phillip, beside him, nods in agreement, though there is something like heartbroken amusement in his eyes.

Camden, on the other hand, just wonders, "What're Tsuchigumo?"

Stiles wraps their arm around his shoulders as they all begin the tiresome trek home, Derek sliding a hand within theirs and lacing their fingers together.

"You don't wanna know, kid," they say. "You don't wanna know."

* * *

Caterina and Cordelia Hale love Stiles, truly, they do. They've got stories, smiles, hugs and cuddles for everyone, and they, along with future-Derek, are changing the Pack, growing it, strengthening it, but they are sad, often, and the days when they're quiet and future-Derek is the one talking instead, filling all the empty spaces, are near unbearable.

Earlier this month, Merry, their new Pack-mate, their Banshee, friend, big sister, screamed for a woman neither of the twins knew, but everyone realized, in the end, could not be saved. The way Stiles had cried that night, inconsolable, had made their hearts ache. But they realize, when they go to school today with Isaac and Mikey (who's only a year below them, their irish triplet), and they see a younger Stiles, who's still going by his mother's nickname for him, having a panic attack, that _their_ Stiles isn't the only one suffering.

And their Stiles already gave them a mission to help one of their fellow peers, it isn't so big a leap to help little Mischief, too, is it?

So the sisters, hand in hand, walk up to the little boy with Isaac hot on their heels, and say, "Hello Mischief-" "That's Caterina-" "but I like to be called Cat, and that's Cordelia-" "but I like to be called Cora. And _that's_ -" the girls each point behind them- "Isaac."

"Hi!" Isaac waves, grinning enthusiastically.

"Can we-" "May we-" _"Might we,"_ They both say together, "sit with you?"

Little Mischief looks contemplative, and just the slightest bit thrown, the boy beside him with warm brown eyes is exuding friendliness despite his own confusion, already nodding before Mischief says, tentatively, "Sure, I guess. I mean, if you really want to?"

 _"Erica!"_ They call out to the other girl together, and she looks up from the blocks she's playing with with a sunny smile. "We're making a new friend!" Cat grins, "His name is Mischief!" Cora continues, smiling wolfishly, "Come play with us!" The twins chime together.

Erica blinks for a few moments before Isaac holds out his hand promptingly, and she laughs, running toward them.

* * *

Peter knows, not much, but enough, from small conversations he's had with future-Derek, in the rare moments he gets the steel-stoic man to open up, that Stiles did not have the best relationship with their father before the couple traveled back in time.

Turns out, John Stilinski is a drinker with latent transphobic tendencies and an incapacity in dealing with traumatized teens. Peter doesn't want to write him off right off the bat, he knows Stiles still loves their father, since, even after everything, they never seem to have a bad word to say about the man, so he decides to meddle, just a little. Stiles may never be capable of having a relationship with their mother, now, after having lost her twice-over so cruelly, but if John _knew_ he had a child, out of time, and if his mind were changed, and if...

Well, Peter can hope, anyway, that what he's about to do will lead to a day when John learns that he does have another child, in a sense, a day when, maybe, Stiles will get some closure, and both of them, will get more family.

So he begins opening up his schedule, going early to pick the kids up, organizing little meet-cutes with the Deputy, all seemingly random, but all with purpose.

Dropping hints.

Little Mischief is ADHD, he's not acting out for attention; little boys are sometimes not little boys at all, be more open-minded, and, yes, those _were_ his mother's dresses, if that makes you uncomfortable, buy dresses for him that don't belong to a ghost; ask him what he wants to be called, ask him how he feels about certain things, ask him what makes him most comfortable; Deputy, don't you think you've maybe had too much to drink? You have a child to take care of, you have friends who are worried about you.

Unbeknownst to Peter, while he was doing this, his nieces and nephew were adopting little Mischief into their little gang, and with him came Scott, Scott's mother, Erica, Boyd, and Jackson.

None of them were Pack, but they were definitely, swiftly and neatly, becoming Pack adjacent, becoming friends of the family. Adding to the already steadily growing influx of their Pack's power.

* * *

Derek finds them in the bathroom, sitting clothed, cross-legged, inside the tub.

"You've been hiding out in here for awhile," he murmurs quietly, climbing into the tub to sit next to them with a grunt. Stiles doesn't hesitate to lean into his side, head going to rest on his shoulder with a tremulous sigh.

"Mini-me, my dad, _Scott_. Goddess, living with all these ghosts is hard."

"Yeah," Derek agrees, quiet, honest, a little hoarse.

"Yeah."

They both sit in silence like that awhile, Stiles reaching over to take his hand, bring it into their lap, palm up, tracing every line with their fingertips, slowly, reverently, and tickle-soft.

Today is a rare one, not necessarily the occasion, because they've been having guests over more and more often lately, but the circumstances. It's one of the first times all the parents have been free in synchronicity with all of the kids wanting to get together. So most of the adults are in the living room, commiserating, Meredith and Laura are keeping an eye on the gaggle of little ones, and whoever's left is either at work, or in the library studying.

"Peter has been talking about telling them, and I think our conversations," he huffs a little, "with our Alpha have worn her down, because she's actually thinking about it, for them _and_ Paige."

Stiles heaves a heavy sigh, looks up at him, all vulnerable emotion, completely open, trusting. "I love you, Der."

Derek reaches up, slides his hand around the back of their neck, leans down, and kisses them, slow, and deep, and _aching_ , all slick-wet soundless language, all promise, and hope, and comfort.

"I love you, too, baby. We'll get through this."

"Yeah," Stiles mumbles against his lips, "'course we will."

* * *

Rohese is the Matriarch of the Argent Clan.

She's old, but not too old for her station, and not so foolish as to be tricked by werewolves, let alone her own people. She is never unnecessarily cruel, but she is hard. Her brother, she knows, has a particularly fanatical view about the wolves, his daughter and daughter-in-law, too. Chris tries to emulate her, more than anything, took to her like a duckling after his mother died, for which she's faced endless, and amusing, resentment from her elder brother. 

The best decision her nephew ever made, she thinks, was deciding to keep Allison in the dark until she was old enough to truly understand. This doesn't mean they're leaving her unprotected, they're still _teaching_ her, they just aren't _traumatizing_ her, something for which she is fully supportive. Whatever her idiot brother thinks.

She was a little thrown- and that is not often something someone can make her, _thrown_ \- when she received a recording and a letter along with it from the Hales, a stable Pack that, as far as she knows, have never gone against the Code, though her spies do report some strange activity recently.

The recording implicates a prominent Clan, the Metzgers, in explicit Code-breaking activity, and the letter explains that the wolves took care of it, and that they'd like a meeting with her in half a year's time.

Within that time the Hale Pack seems to grow exponentially, and Rohese begins to wonder if she needs to prepare for war.

* * *

She meets them at a set date, in neutral territory.

With Talia, the Alpha, is Carlow, on her Right, Peter, on her Left, and four behind her, where only an Emissary or counselor should be. Alan Deaton, she knows, the rest are all new: Another Derek Hale, an older doppelganger with the same name; a gender-ambiguous person with a Polish-sounding surname and forename that were complicated and far too easily forgotten; and a high-schooler only recently indoctrinated, Meredith Walker.

The last three's species and status among the Pack are unknown, and even Deaton seems confused, bemused, mildly wary of their presence—all of this irks her.

"So, Talia, what's the purpose of this meeting?"

"You need to clean house," the easily-forgettable one says bluntly, smiling exactly like any wolf might. Rohese feels a migraine coming on. Meredith snickers behind her hand.

This is going to be a long meeting, she thinks to herself, aggrieved.

But she does, for whatever reason, find herself listening, and learning. A Pack so large can have two Emissaries, which are, of course, Alan, and, less understandably- the look on Alan's face tells her he didn't even _know_ \- the forgettable child. Meredith is a Banshee, her place in the Pack, with her powers well-trained, is amongst the advisors. Derek is... vague. Quiet. Very wise.

And they all tell her, all of them, what's going on amongst her Clan, things she never looked for, never saw, and they have _proof_ , more than that, this meeting is less to offer advice, and more to just offer her an explanation, give _her_ the benefit of the doubt where they could've, quite literally, destroyed her entire empire.

"You've dealt with the Yakuza, Rohese," Talia says, files upon files, research and evidence all splayed out before them in black and white, "you've illegally sold arms to several criminal organizations; and I understand, your Clan does what it has to do, I will not begrudge you that, but your brother, your niece, so many more—they've broken the Code, _your_ Code. We are well within our rights to defend ourselves."

"Within the week," Carlow explains, "these files will be sent to the police. Only those who we have no proof against breaking the Code will be spared."

"Which means you and many of your Clan will be safe," Peter agrees, holds up a finger, " _but_ , if you warn those we're going after, we won't redact anything, and they'll know of your involvement as well."

"If this goes through the way we plan, we want a treaty with you, your Clan and at least seven other Alphas, we want to come together in peace. We want the needless deaths, the violence, we want it to _stop."_ Meredith exhales sharply, obviously emotional, "Don't you want that, too?"

Rohese thinks about it for a very long moment, she looks down at the evidence laid bare before her—torture and brutality she didn't sign off on, _worse_. She wonders what something like _peace_ could be like, and, for just a moment, feels her breath come easier, hope blooming in her chest. Perhaps she's getting sentimental in her old age.

Either way, she knows her answer.

"Yes."

* * *

The next week, it's all over the news: The Argents- dubbed The Silver Mafia by the media- a family of old blood, gang-violence, and mass hysteria.

The three arrested for the most crimes are Gerard, Kate, and Victoria Argent.

The rest of the family remains clean, though they will have to tread far, far more carefully, now.

The Treaty negotiations begin between the Argents, the Hales, Deucalion's Pack, Kali's, Ennis', Freya's, Satomi's, and the Macleouds.

It sets a precedent for other Packs and other Hunters around the world: a rash of crime-family arrests begin, and the Hunters realize that they are not only subject to their Code, but to the law; the Packs fight for treaties, for peace, for the ability to work _together_ to protect regions, territories, towns, counties, cities, states, _continents;_ eventually, fanatical Hunting clans who don't comply get pushed down, pushed out, or dealt with accordingly.

And it isn't as fast as all that, it's hectic, and it does get a little worse before it gets better, but the point, here, is, it _does_ get better.

And the Code, over time, will change:

We protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Because even though her life- and her death- was in an entirely different timeline, her _spirit_ remains, stronger than anything.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT, AMNESTY, IT'S OVER, I LOVE YOU ALL *keels over and dies*

Stiles and Derek deal with the Nemeton/Nogitsune, find a bit more resolution and acceptance, etc.

Their Pack gains Lydia Martin when she and her family move to Beacon Hills at some point. She becomes involved with Jackson. The younger assembled Pack (Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Jackson, Mischief, Lydia, and Scott) save Boyd's sister, Alicia, from a monster of the week, the older assembled Pack is both indulgently proud and exasperated.

When Laura inherits the Alpha-spark, she is thirty-five, married to Meredith, and her Pack is _incredible_. Stiles and Derek, from the future, married themselves, and, having gone through copious amounts of therapy—both of them powerful, incredible soldiers, who don't want to be up any higher on the hierarchy than just Betas, they've done what they needed to do, they say, and they're happy.

Her Emissary, Mischief (present-Stiles), her Left, present-Derek (who _isn't_ , surprisingly, married to Paige—their relationship hadn't lasted through college, but the break-up had been amicable), her Right, her lover, the light of her life ("Shut up, Laur." "Okay, okay. Sorry, I couldn't help myself."), Merry.

All of her family, biological or otherwise, her Betas.

Scott and Erica, eventually, take the Bite. Isaac does not.

John manages to accept both his children for who they are, and _they_ both manage to accept Peter Hale as his... whatever those two are.

Meredith takes one Lydia Martin under her wing when the time comes, and Laura offers Jackson the Bite, with one prerequisite: _therapy_.

Camden doesn't join the military or join law enforcement, he instead saves up enough to buy his _own_ Diner, and he's the best damn cook in Beacon Hills, so of course it gets popular fast.

Scott, as if it were pre-destined, falls in love with Allison, when she and her father move to Beacon Hills.

Just the same, a teenaged Stiles, and a brooding young adult Derek, dance around each other like they weren't written in the stars from the very beginning.


End file.
